“For the last time, Plithe, where are the bodies?”
I look at the detective across from me, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun, her lips pressed into a thin line, her hands clenching and unclenching under the table. So frustrated...her emotions must be severe right now.
“I don’t think that’s the last time you’re going to ask me. You’re going to ask me until I tell you. However, what if I told you the bodies were gone?”
There’s no use in denying I killed all those people. They caught me fair and square, and I feel no remorse. But can’t I have a little fun before going to jail? I do love seeing what makes people tick.
People are like bombs; they have a countdown timer and it is only a matter of time until they erupt. I just like to speed up the process.
“You think you’re clever, Plithe? Well. let me tell you something.”
By all means.
“If you don’t start talking soon, your sentence is going to be a whole lot worse.”
I glance at her boredly. She obviously thinks she’s going to get somewhere. Either that, or the police are as idiotic as I pegged them to be and have no idea where to look.
My third project was a policeman. He was strong and polite, but he didn’t figure out who I was until it was too late. I figure the same is going to occur with these potential subjects.
“You could face the death penalty.”
The menace in her voice suggests she wants me in the chair, but her feelings are nothing but data for me. Emotions are such a complicated thing, and hers are so apparent. It must be difficult to be so vulnerable in front of a serial killer.
“I don’t fear death. It will be a whole new experience.”
She slams a tape and a folder onto the table. She must have been hiding that under the table with her tense hands.
“Jonathan Plithe. It says here that as a child, your mother abused you, your father took advantage of you, and you were admitted into the hospital several times because of school bullies.”
The good ‘ol days.
“Is that why you do what you do? To get back at them? The people you’ve hurt are not going to hurt the ones that hurt you.”
“Obviously not.”
“Let’s watch some of your experiments, shall we?”
I smile at the determined detective. So persistent. So willing. So naive.
“Joy! Movie time.”
I place my hands comfortably in front of me, and wait for my work to start. If I’m going to be killed because of my curiosity, at least someone will see this and gather the information from my testing.
The tape begins, and I see myself in the familiar basement of my house. The easily adjustable room allowed me to see the same reactions in different environments. It was fascinating, really.
“Jezabelle Smith. 34 years old. Hard worker and loved daughter. Why her?”
Jezabelle was my first testing subject. She was perfect. Her vivid expressions provided me with so much information just by talking to her.
I watch myself pull out a saw I borrowed from the office. Being a doctor had its perks. Such as knowing where all the surgical equipment was placed.
“Opportunity. She was at the same bar I was. I talked to her, I brought her home, and she helped me more than I could have imagined.”
How clueless I was when I first began recording notes on the complex human emotion spectrum. I would talk to people. I would observe people. But that was never enough. Jezabelle helped me realize this.
My eyes stay focused on the scene playing out on the screen. Jezabelle was strapped down to the stainless steel table, and was watching me with an expression I came to learn was an extreme case of being terrified.
“Why? Why kill her?”
Death is the final emotion; the last expression a human will ever make in this life. My voice echos in the basement as I reassure the whimpering Jezabelle, “It’s alright, Jezabelle. It will all be over soon. I promise. I just need to see…”
Barely nicking Jezabelle with the blade of the saw, her screams are almost drowned out by the saw. But I could still hear them, I remember. I remember being amazed at how much she thrashed even when I did nothing. I’m still amazed.
The detective clears her throat, and I glance at her disgusted features. Disgust is an odd emotion. One that I have yet to fully understand. It seems to be an acquired emotion which completely throws off everything I have noted.
“I have a question for you; detective. How do you know there are bodies? And how do you know I haven’t cremated them or simply don’t remember where I placed them?”
Her pale face reddens, and the disgusted emotion becomes intensified. I only wish I had my notebook here with me.
“Because sick bastards like you don’t forget.”
I ponder her words for a moment. Is she suggesting there are others like me? If I had known this, I would have consulted with them and compared notes!
“Interesting theory. However, detective, you are asking me all the wrong questions. “Where are the bodies? Why were my subjects chosen? Why am I the way I am? I know what you really want to know; why I cut into their skull? Why did I go through every single limb searching for something inside? What is that something?”
I am giving her the answer. She is not as intriguing as I am sure many of my future inmates in jail will be.
“Alright, Plithe. Why? Why did you do the things you did to them? Why were they all so random? Why did you cut them up into tiny, bite sized pieces?”
Bite sized pieces...sounds cannibalistic.
“I’m glad you asked.”
The screams of dear Jezabelle create a nice background noise, and a smile makes its way onto my face. Such raw emotion. Something I would have never seen if not for Jezabelle.
I remember when I saw her at the bar. She didn’t interest me until she cut her hand on a piece of splintered wood on the bar. The reactions of others that had obtained a splinter prior to Jezabelle merely winced, but Jezabelle, she screamed. Such little harm yet such intense feeling.
I had to bring her home, and it was easy. I’ve become quite the master at faking emotions over the years of analyzing behavior. After Jezabelle, I finally began to understand.
“I never knew much about people until I took one apart...just to see how it worked.”
The detective visibly shudders, and I see the policeman in the corner flare his nostrils. He’s much better at hiding his emotions instead of displaying them like his superior. He would be an interesting one down in my basement.
“I’m going to ask you again; where are the bodies?”
I smile widely, exposing my white, parallel rows of teeth, “I knew you’d ask again.”